Mettacam
His hood was drawn up around his frame, the breeze that billowed ruffling his sleeves and rustling trash around in the dimly-lit, graffiti-littered alleyway. A slight whirring sound and the all-too-familiar sound of police sirens were audible in the distance and approaching ever near. The man went stiff. Not a muscle was moved, not a breath uttered, every bone in his body entirely rigid. The wailing sounds grew ever near, ever near, ever near. The muscles in his back, his arms, his shoulders were taught with tension and stress, never letting up while the wailing sounds of justice and rotting corruption were heard, the flashing lights of blue and red were in his vision. Silence. He took a breath. Once, twice, in raggedy heaves. And then he knocked 3 times on the metal door. The only word that came to mind as he entered was "loud". The place was raucous and the bass throbbed under his feet as a rap song blared from the overhead speakers, too loud for him to even collect his thoughts. The sound of rowdy chatter, screaming, the crunching of glass, all the senses of the underground came back to him and he inhaled and exhaled slowly, relieved he was at home once again. Voices blared through a loudspeaker, vulgarities were strewn around like bullets after a gunfight, and the aura of carelessness captured the room and seemed to transform it into a safe haven, an underground battle-room away from the outlaws and the working class. This was carelessness. This was anarchy. This was home. He took another swig of liquid courage, the brown-rimmed bottle tipped back as he inhaled the contents, a fire igniting inside him, rekindling a passion that he had buried away some time ago and was thought to be long-forgotten. A voice rang out, loud, burly, and demanding. The man cracked a sly smile, and threw his bottle to the ground, fragments of jagged glass expanding over the concrete floor like remnants of his broken world. He stood up from his seated position of comfort on the barstool and stepped through the red rubber ropes into the circle, the place he called home, the familiarity of chaos and anarchy, the true meaning of strength about to be revealed in a barrage of scarred knuckles and echoes of pain "And in this corner, we have the challenger, the foe, the opposition. It's Awakening!" Cheers and claps, assumed to be out of cordiality, rang out, whoops and jeers accenting the politeness the club offered to the newcomers of the fights. They knew what he was called. He didn't have to say it twice. But the announcer said it anyways, to ensure that everyone knew the fear behind the title of the soon-to-be victor. The voice rang out loud and deep, silencing the room in a single statement. "Annnnnddd nowww. Ouurrr maiiinnn evveennntt! Ladies and gentlemennnn, we have our victorrr, our returning champppiiooonnn! The broken hero, the lost boy, the warrior anew, put your hands together for-", he paused for dramatic effect and the ring fell silent in an undeniable anticipation, "Nighttttffalllll!" Cheers and whoops came louder than ever before, screams echoing in all different pitches, all different inflections and accents, all people in the crowd coming together in a singular purpose of undeniable support. The man, deemed as Nightfall, stood there, motionless, his hands twitching rapidly in climaxed anticipation. The announcer spoke again. "Annnnddd leeettt theeee fiiigggghhhtt begggiiinnn!!!" Everyone fell hush. The challenger, Awakening, stood there, hands clenched, leaning back and forth on his heels in preparation. Nightfall cracked a smile through the pitch-black of his hood. The newcomers were always so eager to start. He raised his fists and brought them back to his chest in a taunting motion. The newbie lurched forward, the sickening crack of ragged bumps on a cheekbone taking the victor back in surprise coupled with a glob of saliva. He staggered backwards, collecting his wits, and raised his fists again. It was merely a dance, an orchestrated ballet of blood and sweat and toughened knuckles sinking into flesh. And it had begun. Nightfall lurched forward in a pirouette of revenge, his fist floating through the air and spinning into the man's abdomen with a violent fierceness that had not been present before. The man coupled backwards, hunched over and regaining his wits for the next steps. Nightfall did a pirouette. Punch. ''He did a twirl through the air. ''Punch. He spun on his toes, a graceful presence that could not be captured by anyone else of his stature. Punch. And then, the --- The finale never came. The victor fell backwards in an act of gracefulness and surprise, landing violently when his backside came into contact with the concrete. In his line of blood-stained vision as he hurtles backwards towards defeat, he saw a man up against the ropes, a thin cigarette between his nimble fingers. He was a blurry outline, but he managed to make out a slight nod from his head. He blinked again, confused and disoriented, and the man had disappeared. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. Coughing up blood, he struggled to let a ragged exhalation of oxygen pass through his desperate and recuperating lungs. His vision went splotchy. Was this truly the finale? Was he to give up his title and stay the outcast forever, the loser, the worthless and unworthy hero? No. He refused to let this happen. The dance had to continue. Summoning his courage and the last shreds of strength that were suppressed in his sub-concious, he stood up, leaning back and forth, his fists clenching and unclenching in a vivid, inexpressible rage that he could only show in dance. He stepped forward, once, twice, knees tottering, legs swaying. A right cross to the side of the head sent the opponent hurtling toward the boundaries of the crimson ropes. He fell with a thud. Victory tasted bittersweet in that moment, as bittersweet as the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. He was the broken hero born anew. He had done the finale, finished the dance. He no longer hid behind the hood of fear, lurking in the shadows for his day of renouncing to come. His name was Mettacam. He was the broken fighter, and the shattered glass pieces of his life would be put back together once again. As he pulled the hood down to face the new opportunities that life had to offer him, he was forced back into the shadows once again. A ''thud ''and he was blown backwards full-force, the bittersweet taste of blood and dirt on the tip of his tongue, as he came into contact with something hard, blunt, heavy. And then, the oblvion that his opponents had come to experience one too many times came full-force upon his body and as the unknown and the uncertain immersed his figure. The match was over, and it seemed this time that there would be no victors.